


Five times Natasha had a cup of tea and once she had a cup of coffee

by conceivability



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Kid Natasha, Natasha Feels, Natasha Needs a Hug, Nostalgia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, SHIELD, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, steve - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceivability/pseuds/conceivability
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both knew it wouldn’t be forever, but Natasha was itching at her own skin, desperate to start the game again, to find a new role to play and a new chase to distract her. Steve just seemed to be enjoying the moment. Particularly the moments with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Natasha had a cup of tea and once she had a cup of coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Empirical_Equipoise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empirical_Equipoise/gifts).



> First ever fic, and I had fun with this one. Written for the marvellous Empirical_Equipoise, who prompted me 'tea and nostalgia', and I think was expecting something a little more fluffy. I've now discovered I don't do fluff.
> 
> Comments are petrol in this writer's engine - let me know what you think :)
> 
> ~ conceivability

**1**

The grown-ups were drinking tea at the kitchen table. Natasha sat under the table playing with her dolls. The one with the dark hair, Anna, had gone to visit Katerina. Katerina used to have long red hair but Natasha had cut it off when she was playing hairdressers. She hadn’t realised it wouldn’t grow back. Some day she would like to have long red hair like Katerina used to have.

She made Katerina pick up an eggcup to give to Anna, for her tea. But the eggcup was empty; that wouldn’t do. Natasha crawled over to where her mother sat, only her cracked green shoes and faded jeans visible below the table. She tugged on the jeans and put the eggcup on her mother’s lap.

“Mama, Katerina needs tea for her friend.”

A hand with brightly painted nails came down and retrieved the egg cup. A moment or two later it was returned, filled with hot sweet tea from her mother’s cup. She took the cup, and her mother ruffled her hair gently. She was talking and laughing with her friends, but Natasha knew they’d be gone soon and she’d have her back, just the two of them.

She crawled back over the orange linoleum and settled herself against the chipped white wall, next to the grate. That was where Baba Yaga would come out from and get her, if she was naughty, her mother said. But Natasha was five now, and she didn’t believe her any more. Mostly.

She made Katerina pass the cup to Anna, and Anna said thank you nicely. Anna couldn’t really drink the tea, so Natasha would just have to pretend. She lifted the eggcup to her mouth and sniffed, trying to catch the milky-sweet nice-notnice smell which was halfway between soap and rice pudding. But she couldn’t smell it. She smelled burning.

A gentle cloud of smoke, like hot breath on a cold day, crept its way out of the grate. It must be coming from one of the floors below – there were so many to walk past, up all the stairs! This smoke was thicker now, and warm. Maybe she should ask Mama? But Mama was talking to her friends, and didn’t like it when Natasha pestered her. So Natasha picked up Anna and Katerina, and held them close, and shut her eyes as her world started to burn around her.

**2**

“You wanted to see me?”

She sat herself down in one of the chairs in front of Fury’s desk, kicking her feet up under her and cradling the cup of tea she’d just made in both hands. Fury could talk for hours, and he never offered anyone a drink.

“How’s the new apartment?” Fury asked. Natasha rolled her eyes.

“Get to the point. You didn’t bring me here to hear about my wallpaper choices.”

Fury looked solemn rather than annoyed, and Natasha started to wonder what might be going on. He turned his laptop round towards her. There was a photograph on the screen of an elderly man, his grey hair wispy and disarrayed, his eyes dull with tiredness. He looked familiar.

“Do you know this man?”

Natasha searched her memories, trying desperately to place the curve of his mouth, the bump in his nose, the sly tilt of his eyebrows. She knew she knew him, but just couldn’t say where from. Was he SHIELD? Someone she’d met undercover? From the Red Room? Or before that…maybe she was kidding herself that she didn’t remember things from before that. She looked up at Fury, perplexed.

“Who is he?”

“He got off a commercial flight from Kiev five days ago, at JFK. He claimed asylum, said he knew some stuff the CIA would be interested in. CIA passed him on to us. Turns out he defected from his previous…employers a week ago. Thought they were about to remove him. Decided to try his luck here.”

The familiar face was nagging at her now, but she just couldn’t place him. She looked at Fury in askance.

“The man named on his passport died in Ufa six months ago. He says his real name is Ivan Petrovich.”

The name hit her in the stomach like a punch. She hadn’t seen him for almost fifteen years; life had obviously not been kind to him, and he’d definitely been under the surgeon’s knife once or twice. But now the memories came pouring back unbidden. His mouth open in a smile, the gold tooth glinting. His eyebrows in a frown; her fear. His voice in the dark: _‘_ _Pautushka*, pautushka… ’_

“That’s not his real name.” said Natasha. “I don’t know what his real name is. But that’s the name I knew him by.”

So many questions. Her skin crawled with discomfort as she tried to press down the memories and focus. She wasn’t the same now, things weren’t the same, she didn’t have to fear him in the way she did…

“Where is he?”

“In a place of safety.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” She couldn’t keep her disquiet from her voice.

“He’s safe from the organisation he used to work for. And from anyone else who might bear a grudge.” He looked at her pointedly.

“Is he contained?”

“Thoroughly”. Fury’s tone left no doubt as to the precautions he was taking. Natasha felt herself relax a little and pulled her feet out from under her so she was sitting forward on the chair.

“Do you believe him to be dangerous, Agent Romanoff?”

Natasha met Fury’s eyes steadily. Neither blinked for a moment or two. Finally, Natasha took a breath, cleared her head.

“He has the potential to be, depending what he wants. He could certainly be an inconvenience to SHIELD if he put his mind to it.”

Fury eyed her carefully. “Do you consider this man to be a danger to you personally, Agent Romanoff?”

“No.”

The barest hint of a smile passed across Fury’s scarred face. _Well done, Agent_ he was saying. _Let’s be professional about this ._

“What is your connection to this man?”

Natasha took a deep breath, switching off the remnants of the  loved-starved fifteen year old who was pricking at the corners of her eyes and shrugging on her latest role – Agent of SHIELD, detached composed.

“He was my first handler. We started working together when started active missions. I think I was about twelve years old. He was responsible for some of my training. He was a couple of levels below the director of the Red Room, and was promoted after we stopped working together.”

Fury looked at her steadily. “That’s most what he told us. I’m glad you’re able to verify it.”

Natasha wasn’t done. “I lived with him for about a year when I was fifteen. We had a sexual relationship.”

She glared at Fury, daring him to blink, to crack, to give any sign of sympathy or pity which would deny her the defence she’d made herself – that it was just one of those things she did, a rational choice made for her own survival.

He let her have that dignity.

“Well, that would explain his request.”

Natasha tilted her head, dread pooling in her stomach.

“Request?”

Fury pulled the computer back round, and Natasha was relieved at not having the picture stare at her, then irritated with herself for being relieved.

“His condition for talking to us. He wants to meet with you, alone.” Fury said,  and when she didn’t immediately answer he pressed on. “He’s willing to sell out the whole organisation, says he knows the names of all the people at the top, locations of most of the bases, who they’ve got in our government…”

Natasha could see his eyes glinting, and ran through it in her head. He didn’t expect her to refuse. If she did, he’d order her; this was just too valuable to be sacrificed for the sake of her _feelings_ . She agreed, deep down, that it was too good an opportunity to miss. But him asking, and her considering, gave them both the illusion that they were good people making difficult choices. Of course they weren’t; they couldn’t afford to be _nice_ about things, not when so much rested on them.

He was letting her pretend she wasn’t bothered about seeing him again.

“That’s all?” she asked, standing up. “Let me know when I’m going.”

**3**

She didn’t knock. Instead, she picked the lock silently (Just as he had taught her – _what delicate hands, Pautushka_ – and how she had glowed with pride!). The little apartment was warm, steamy – something was cooking on the stove, a smell brought to mind that other apartment, at the top of the crumbling concrete block in Volgograd, where he’d taken her if she’d done well on a mission, been good.

The radio was on. The corridor in front of her led to a little kitchen, and he was standing at the stove with his back to her. He was wearing soft grey trousers and a faded cardigan, and humming along as he worked. He looked like somebody’s beloved grandfather.

Suddenly he stopped, pulled himself up straight and reached over to turn the radio off.

“Is that my little Pautushka?”

Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her hand went to the gun on her hip.

“Cha, cha Pautuska, you are losing your touch. Why, I am hearing you come up all the stairs on those heavy feet!”

Natasha walked a few steps down the corridor.

“They told me you weren’t armed. I have no reason to surprise you.”

“And you are trusting that they can keep me from having a weapon, ha, Pautushka? You think I can’t outwit them?”

“No. You can’t. If there’s one thing I learnt in fifteen years, Ivan, it’s that you’re not half as good as you think you are.”

He turned round to her and smiled. The gold tooth still glinted in his mouth. Natasha felt a rush of… something. She hadn’t disappointed him.

“Ah. Natasha.” He switched to Russian, and it took her a moment to catch up. “You grow more beautiful as you get older. But in other ways you haven’t changed at all.”

Natasha bristled. She wanted to contradict him, to tell him all the things that had changed (starting with _I don’t need to fuck my handlers to know I did good_ ). But she remembered how he got when she disagreed with him, how he refused to acknowledge her until she wept with frustration, and decided to keep quiet.

“Would you like some tea, Natasha? Weak and two sugars, yes? You have always had such a sweet tooth.”

He indicated for her to follow him into the small lounge. On a side table sat a samovar, copper and brightly polished. It was just like the one he’d had in the flat in Volgograd. She remembered sitting at the table sharing tea with him and with Madame, who’d trained her. She’d felt like a grown-up. Honoured. Respected. That had been the day they’d told her she would pretend to be Ivan’s daughter so she could get close enough to a man to put a knife in his neck.

Ivan had made her the tea, and she took it numbly. He reached his and up and ran his knuckles along her cheek.

“Ah, Natasha. We used to have such fun. Once more, eh, to make an old man happy?”

Her stomach dropped and the room span, then she saw the twinkle in his eye. He was playing the harmless uncle, like he had in front of Madame. Flirting. Then she remembered why she was here and what she had to do. She remembered which role to play.

She smiled playfully at him. “Ah, Ivan, I would but I’m bugged.” She winked at him for good measure, then sat herself down on the small sofa, crossing her long legs carefully and leaning back so she could peek at him seductively through her eyelashes as she sipped her tea. SHIELD needed intel. Ivan wanted an evening with her, to reminisce. The happier he was, the more he’d co-operate. So this was the game they’d play: lovers, remembering the good times.

She got to work.

**4**

Clint was in her apartment already when she got back. He at least had the decency to leave the door ajar, and his bow propped up in her hall, so she didn’t try and jump him with her gun. When she finally wandered into the living room he was sat on her sofa with his nose in the book, sipping a cup of tea that he’d helped himself to.

“I’m going to make myself a coffee. Do you want one?”

“No, thanks, it…”

“…gives you the shakes. Yeah.” Natasha made him a herbal tea. Clint lived in fear of getting the shakes, though Natasha had never seen it happen.

They sat quietly for a while, talking of this and that. They both knew they were dancing around the abyss, but it took a while to get there. They were silent for a moment.

“You know what the worst of it is?” Clint said suddenly. “The worst thing is how much I wanted to please him.”

Natasha stared at him in shock as her own thoughts seemed to tumble out of his mouth.

“I mean, they think it was some sort of compulsion – like a force just too strong for me to fight. Like he was pulling at my limbs, or hurting my mind until I gave up. But that wasn’t it. I…I just wanted him to be pleased with me. And when he told me to do something I just ached for his approval. It’s like, without him telling me what to do, how to be, I was alone in the dark. I didn’t know how I’d live if he didn’t find me useful.”

He looked over to Natasha. His eyes were ringed with shadow, and he’d obviously lost weight since Coulson had died. She shifted along the couch and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s worse”, she murmured, “To be the people too weak to fight it, or the people who chose to do the things we did.”

His arm was around her, anchoring her. He downed the last of his tea.

“Ah, who gives a fuck. You want to spar?”

She kicked his ass.

**5**

“Shouldn’t we have a nice cup of tea instead?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Stark, it’s the twenty-first century, even in England. I can find you a cup of coffee if you want one.”

“No, I want tea. I want to fit in. I always wanted to be British. Don’t you think I look a bit European?”

Natasha eyed him up and down, from his $500-dollar snakeskin shoes to his sharp goatee and slicked hair, and rolled her eyes.

She took him to a multinational-chain coffee shop. It was the only thing that was open at this time of night. They managed to find a teabag somewhere to make Tony his tea, and Natasha found them a seat by the kitchen. The dishwasher was running. It would be hard for anyone to overhear them.

Tony took one mouthful of his tea, and spat it back into the cup.

“What is this shit? It’s like warmed-up dishwater. How are you meant to stay awake on this?”

“Do you want me to get you a coffee?”

“No, it’s fine.” He flipped open his phone. “Pepper, I’m going to need a cup of coffee when I’m done here.” He hung up again.

“I’m surprised she still lets you get away with that shit.”

“Oh, that’s not Pepper – it’s my new PA. She’s very good. I just call her Pepper because it pisses them both off.”

Natasha sat back in her chair. She felt herself unwind a little. Living with Steve was… exhausting, sometimes. She never knew where she was. To start with, he’d been like a kid brother, or a mark,  but as time went on and they settled down for as long as it would take to blow over, she felt more and more intimidated by his ease and his goodness.   

Getting them both out of America quietly after SHIELD went down had taken all her patience and ingenuity. Steve didn’t like lying, or lying low, or being on the wrong side of authority. That was what the military would do to a man.  Once they got to England, and found somewhere to live (Shoreditch, East London - Natasha had decided in a moment of perversity that they’d both be hipsters. Steve had grown a beard.), it turned out that she was out of her depth. She didn’t know how to live. She didn’t know how to be when she just had to be Natasha. Steve knew exactly who he was, and how to get by day by day, finding satisfaction in painting a wall, or reading a book, or chatting to the guy who ran the grocery store. Natasha envied him this calm contentment. They both knew it wouldn’t be forever, but Natasha was itching at her own skin, desperate to start the game again, to find a new role to play and a new chase to distract her, whereas Steve seemed to be enjoying the moment. Particularly the moments with her.

And this was the fear that paralyzed her at night, that someday he would dig down and find there was no her, no redeemable person below the facades, and the killing, and the girl who’d fucked her handler because she couldn’t think of a good reason not to.

With Stark, she knew what she was, and she knew he didn’t give a fuck because he was that and worse. So they laughed over old stories, and shared jokes, and missions which went wrong and those that went right. They talked about friends, caught up on gossip, and Natasha cried a little when Tony told her that Coulson was alive – not for her, but for Clint, whose grief she’d found too raw and terrifying to face since Loki had come to earth.

Then Tony leant back and tipped his tea into a plant pot and refilled the cup from his hipflask, and poured some into Natasha’s cup too, and even through the dregs of the coffee she could tell that it was good stuff, of course it was, because it was Stark, who knew exactly what he was, and after that the evening got funnier, and blurrier, and sadder, and they toasted absent friends, and cheered themselves up by toasting absent enemies.

Then she was stumbling out of Stark’s car, and stumbling the few streets home. (“Not outside the flat, someone might be following. Don’t you fucking dare think I can’t beat the shit out of anyone when I’m pissed.”), and stumbling through the door as Steve opened it, her key not quite making its way into the lock for some reason. And then she was laughing in his arms, at the goddamn hero of America called out of his bed to rescue a drunk Russian assassin whore, but he was smiling at her like her laughter was catching, and tucking her in her bed (clothes still on), and kissing her goodnight on her forehead.

The bed spun underneath her, but the place he’d kissed stayed steady, like her axis.

One time she had a cup of coffee

The nightmare crept up on her again in the early hours of the morning. Her clothes were burning with a searing, Tesseract-coloured flame. She pulled them off frantically, layer after layer, squinting her eyes against the bright blue light and feeling the flesh on her hands melt. The clothes shredded as she pulled at them and each layer fell away to reveal another beneath it, burning even more painfully. Her skin - she had to find her skin. Panic rose in her, crushing her chest and squeezing her throat as she pulled the cloth away in agonising handfuls until at last she felt something hard under her fingers but there was no skin left just dark bone where her body should be and that too crumbled in the noxious fire.

She awoke with a tiny gasp. The bed was drenched in sweat around her. She lay still and tried to control her breathing. She hated when this happened; this wasn’t _her_. She hated her mind for betraying her into fear and vulnerability - other people were allowed to get fucked up this way, not her, she had to be too good for this, too strong, because if she wasn’t then what was left for her to be?

Of course Steve was awake. He was looking at her with concern in his eyes. She turned away when he cupped her cheek with her hand, then swung her legs off the bed and walked to the bathroom.

“I just need some water.”

She stumbled to the sink and tugged at the light cord, and the brightness made her squint her eyes again. Under the unforgiving yellow light, the face in the mirror looked tired, and worn out, and old.  

Steve came to the door. She glared at him, waiting for him to pity her.

“Get your clothes on. We’re going for a run.”

Natasha looked up in surprise. This wasn’t how it normally went. After he’d noticed why she was waking every night, he’d tried to pull her close, to shush and comfort, and she couldn’t bear how incapable it made her feel to have him trying to rescue her from her vulnerability.

This time, he was holding her clothes in hand, scooped off the floor where she’d dropped them last night. (He hated that she was so messy. She hated that he folded her socks.) He smiled and threw them to her, then turned back to the bedroom, presumably to find his own.

They ran silently through the grey, damp dawn until the early sun started to burn off the mist. They found themselves by Hampstead Heath just as Natasha’s strength was flagging (Steve never flagged). They found a tiny café with stained Formica tables and a greasy floor and bought two paper cups of bad coffee, then went to sit by the boating lake. Natasha liked to watch the ducks.

It was still early, and their breath condensed in the cold, fresh air to form plumes of mist.

“This is a pretty fine way not to die”, said Steve.

Natasha smiled a little and leant into him, warm and reassured. She looked out over the lake at the yellow sunrise glow climbing over the treeline. She smelt the wet, leafy smell of the lake and the trees. She listened to the quiet splashing of the ducks, and the faint hum of traffic as the city began to wake. She sipped the terrible coffee, and felt her expression slowly soften into  a quiet smile. Steve kept looking out towards the lake, and if he noticed the smile he didn't say anything, but he was smiling too.

**Author's Note:**

> *Pautushka: 'little spider'


End file.
